Come, then, ever when daylight leaves Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee! TO THE WITCH HAZEL. MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave With a sad beauty in the dying year, Blooming amid November's frost severe, Like the pale corpse-light o'er the recent grave! Of spirits wandering at the midnight hour; And thou canst point where buried treasures lie. But yet to me, thou art an emblem high ; Of patient virtue, to the Christian given, Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide To treasures for the just laid up in heaven. THE BLIND MOTHER. GENTLY, dear mother, here The bridge is broken near thee, and below Lean on me, mother-plant thy staff before thee, The green leaves, as we pass, Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, And the low forest grass Grows green and lovely where the woodpaths wind--Alas, for thee, dear mother, thou art blind! And nature is all bright; And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky- The moon's new silver shell Trembles above thee, and the stars float up In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup And the swift birds on brilliant pinions fleeAlas, dear mother, that thou canst not see! And the kind looks of friends Peruse the sad expression in thy face, Low to thine ear with duty unforgot Alas, dear mother, that thou seest them not! But thou canst hear-and love May richly on a human tone be poured, And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, Yes-thou canst hear-and He, Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung Heaven, and earth, and sea! And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know, With but one sense the soul may overflow! THE JOURNEY OF TRUTH. ACCURSED be the hour I ventured to roam I sought the enchantress Fashion's hall— And song, whose thrilling melody Won its unchecked way to the human breast; I told him how fickle and fleeting the loud The uncertain fame, and the certain hate; Or lure yon moth from that glittering flame, I entered the cell of the plodding sage, A fair young maiden, with open brow, I whispered her, that one day she That her idol was cold and vain, and would cling Of her changeless love would forget, and leave I entered the church, and what did I there? I drove from the pulpit the minister. Poor priest! he turned paler than marble-but I I knocked at the dying man's desolate gate- And seeing me coming, had bolted the door. |